


burnt down, praying for rain

by semperfemina



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15967202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfemina/pseuds/semperfemina
Summary: the two of them - shoulders pressed together, neon blue shining through the windows. the walls in this place have seen them grow up, have seen it all.(you've been here before. you'll be here again.)





	burnt down, praying for rain

**Author's Note:**

> lapslock and zero beta reading and this whole fic brought to you by a depressive episode. a shoddily constructed alternate universe.

we'll never be those kids again -

frank ocean, _ivy_.

 

* * *

 

 

when wonwoo is twenty-two, his father dies.  
  
he thinks - _finally dies_ but that would give the wrong impression; it wasn't something wonwoo wished for or something he even waited for, but all the same, it isn't unexpected. if anything, it feels like the other shoe has finally fallen. (the first fell years earlier, with the passing of his mother and now both feet are on the floor. it's done.)  
  
when he's twenty two years old, wonwoo returns to itaewon for the first time since he was seventeen and finds it largely the same and much the way he left it - crowded and bustling and busy. it's night time when he arrives and the walk from the subway to his childhood home is the same, too; neon, illuminated by the signs along the streets. the key he carries in his pocket still fits the lock of the apartment and inside the air is still and stuffy. he has to open a window in the living room.  
  
he turns on a lamp beside the chair that was his father's and the light over the sink in the kitchen - the neon filament buzzes and the ceiling above him groans with the movement from someone upstairs and through the open window, he can hear the sounds from the street. it's never quiet here - he'd forgotten that.  
  
that first night back, wonwoo finds that he can't sleep in the apartment. he lies awake for an hour, the dim light from his phone glowing against the darkness of his boyhood bedroom and wonwoo can't sleep, no matter how hard he tries. it's not that he isn't tired - he's so exhausted he can barely think and without much adieu, he gathers his things into the same bag he unpacked them from a couple hours before and leaves the apartment. he is turning the key in the lock when he hears a sound from next door, the same dull click his own key makes but it's not someone unlocking the door - it's someone coming out.  
  
wonwoo freezes, spends the next few minutes frozen. it's mingyu (of course it's mingyu, still here after all these years, still the same but completely different) and he stops, stands halfway in and halfway out of his own apartment. he rolls his shoulders back; he half-smiles. wonwoo looks away.  
  
"you're home," mingyu says.  
  
"i was going to get a motel room," wonwoo replies, and he pulls the lock from the door. he stares at the doorknob. "dad died." he says it before he thinks it through and when he tries to swallow after, his mouth feels swollen and sore with the words.  
  
he has nothing else to say so he doesn't - he doesn't say a thing. he won't look but he knows mingyu is staring at him and the door creaks on it's hinges and the shadows shift and mingyu has stepped back inside his own apartment. he's holding the door open.  
  
"don't be stupid," he says. "come in."  
  
wonwoo does.  
  
  
  
  
  
there isn't a beginning, not a real one.  
  
it's simpler than a beginning and also some how more difficult - because it's just the way it is, the way it always has been, and faintly there's the consideration of the way it always will be. (should or could or will or won't, it's hard to say for sure. it's the future, after all, the _still happening_ , the _yet to come_. the future hasn't decided yet whether it's a question mark or a period, so it just is. open-ended.)  
  
so there's no beginning (and no end, not yet) and in place of the start there are times, moments. half-hearted recollections or memories so vivid that they're almost tangible, almost real. there are periods of time, some long and some short, some that seem yellow-hued and warm and some that are bitter, a sour taste in the mouth.  
  
no one talks about it much - they don't talk about it ever. maybe it never occurs to mingyu or wonwoo to think of time or life or the past or the present any differently because it's what they've always known, for as long as either of them can remember. maybe it would be more strange to address it, the knowledge that there's no beginning - that they both woke up one day and realized the other was there and then realized there was never a time when the other wasn't there.  
  
  
  
  
  
the apartments they lived in then (when they had the realization, the epiphany, the _you've been here since i can remember_ moment) were separated by the wall in their bedrooms. the two apartments a mirror image of one another in their layout, room to room, kitchen to kitchen, front door to front door.  
  
their rooms, the smallest.  
  
as children they liked this, the way that children like things - without much rhyme or reason, just because. because it was cool for your best friend to live right next door, but even cooler for your rooms to be so close. a thin wall separating the two apartments; at night, they could talk to one another without even raising their voices. it was like a childhood adventure that didn't have to stop because dinner was done or it was dark outside or it was bedtime. it was like never having to go home.  
  
neither of them liked going home very much. they didn't talk about it.  
  
(it's one of those things - they still don't. they don't talk about it ever.)  
  
the first time mingyu went to wonwoo's room he took note of it, all of it. how old were they? five, six at the oldest. they walked home from school together, they wanted to go back outside to play, but they both had to change their clothes.  
  
"my mom will kill me," mingyu said. "if i ruin my uniform."  
  
wonwoo, being older (barely older, hardly a year older), was charged with carrying both the keys - one for his own home and one for mingyu's, both of the keys dull and golden, in his pocket - and he agreed. both apartments were empty but they went to mingyu's first and in mingyu's room, wonwoo scooped the dirty uniform up off the floor and took it to put on the balcony with the rest of the laundry that needed done while mingyu changed, pulling on his clothes haphazardly in his little kid way, and then they went next door and wonwoo did the same thing there but with his own school clothes this time.  
  
and mingyu wandered around clumsily as if there were any room for wandering in wonwoo's room. it struck him how much there rooms were similar (in their simplicity and their bareness, places for function instead of form) but how different. he looked at wonwoo's bedroll on the floor, nearest to the wall that they shared and felt the version of embarrassment that you feel as a kid, the kind that makes you confused and upset because you can't quite put your finger on it, because wonwoo's duvet was spread just so and his one pillow was lying neatly atop the covers and in mingyu's own room, the place he slept was unmade and disheveled and he still had a stuffed animal, a little bear, and wonwoo had seen that. he was thankful wonwoo didn't pick on him, didn't mention it - didn't tease or goad. he forgot all about it of course, when wonwoo told him to come on and out they went, both doors locked behind them and they played outside until they couldn't any longer.  
  
when mingyu went home that night, he went into his own room and pulled his things across the floor until his bed was nearest to the wall, until his room was symmetrical to wonwoo's in every way.  
  
in the dark, he pressed his spine flush to the drywall and fell asleep imagining it wasn't the wall at all he was leaning against, but wonwoo's own back against his.  
  
did wonwoo do the same?  
  
they didn't talk about it.  
  
they still don't. not ever.  
  
  
  
  
  
for years, that was life. the two of them together, invisible to most people - just two kids running around the streets, the neighborhoods around their building. it was a different time; this was the way it was for a lot of the kids they grew up with, too, all of them independent and equal parts self-sufficient and self-indulgent.  
  
(just two kids, two boys, one fair-skinned and one tan, fishing coins out of the gutters and spending the money on arcade games and candy. you couldn't have mistaken them for brothers - they looked nothing alike.)  
  
they were quiet kids, mostly stayed-out-of-trouble kids and when they were eight or nine, a man from the neighborhood approached them one afternoon near the cross street of their apartment building and the school they went to. he told them they looked like good kids, did they want some money? could they do him a favor? and before either of them could answer, he shoved a backpack in their direction. wonwoo took it, and following it, the man palmed him a couple hundred won. he told them to take the backpack to a bus stop a few blocks away, to leave it sitting on the bench; then go home, listen to your mom and dad, he said, best not to tell them though. half-scared and half-excited, wonwoo slung the backpack over his shoulders and he and mingyu made the short walk to the bus station, did as they were told.  
  
mingyu wanted to stay and watch - to see what happened next, but wonwoo tugged his arm, pulled him away. they both had the sense to know it wasn't right, but wonwoo had the sense to leave before either of them saw anything and they stole away, buzzing with excitement and adrenaline the walk back home and they looked at each other before they went into their apartments and each of them knew what the other was thinking - so they didn't talk about it.  
  
it kept on for years, the man with the backpacks, the drop-offs in inconspicuous places, the feeling of doing something wrong but going back the next day to do the same thing all over again.  
  
they didn't talk about it, then.  
  
wonwoo feels like it's his fault, after all - he shouldn't have taken the backpack that first day at all. he should've never let mingyu see him do that.  
  
they won't talk about it now.  
  
  
  
  
  
they were alone a lot of the time but it never really seemed to matter because they weren't really alone - they always had one another. wonwoo's parents both worked, they worked nearly all the time. sometimes as a child, he wasn't sure when they slept and as an adult he realizes that some of the time, they just didn't. it was always hard work, back-breaking and monotonous work, the kind of work that wore them down and even when they were there, he felt remiss to ask them to give anymore than they already were so he didn't ask. he didn't expect.  
  
he took responsibility for the things he could (for more things than he should have) and the rest, he tried not to think about. he can tell himself now that it wasn't a bad childhood, but maybe it wasn't a good one another - it could've been worse. for kids like him, kids in the apartments they lived in, the part of town they lived in, most of the time it was.  
  
it was for mingyu. worse. it was worse for mingyu and even as a child, wonwoo knew that.  
  
they didn't (they still don't) talk about mingyu's dad or who he was or where he could have gone. they didn't talk about his mom much either, because there wasn't much to say. she worked and she tried, and it wore her down. it made her angry. it made her yell. wonwoo could hear it all and never tried to let on that he couldn't or that he didn't - he just tried to make it easier any way that he knew how for mingyu.  
  
so in the afternoons, after school, they'd tidy the apartment and do the dishes and wonwoo would put rice on in the rice cooker, set it to stay warm long after it was done. he'd put the laundry where it should be and he'd tell mingyu how to scrub away the dirt from his shirts or the mud from his shoes so that there would be no stains, no hassles. no mess to clean. they'd keep the kid things (mingyu's kid things, toys and books and school supplies) out of view, in the room that was mingyu's, with the door closed.  
  
out of sight, out of mind. wonwoo tried hard not to let it make him angry while mingyu tried hard to pretend that it didn't make him sad and neither spoke a word about any of it because there as nothing to say.  
  
(they talk about it once, when they're thirteen and fourteen and mingyu gets into a fight at school. he gets blood on his shirt, his white uniform shirt, and wonwoo spends the better part of an hour doctoring the fabric, coaxing out the stain.  
  
"she's going to kill me," mingyu says, because this is what he always says when he knows his mother will be mad. she could've killed him a hundred times over for all the times he's ever said it, wonwoo thinks, and this is  the first time it gives him any pause.  
  
they're standing in the bathroom in wonwoo's apartment - no, wonwoo is standing, bent over the sink with the shirt in his hands and mingyu is sitting on the side of the bathtub looking defeated and miserable and the room smells like bleach and vinegar. the door is closed. he scrubs away at the shirt with a toothbrush that he keeps for times like this, for times when mingyu makes messes that he helps clean up.  
  
"does she ever hit you?" the question is genuine but the ease with which wonwoo asks it seems to startle both of them. mingyu stares at him, but he doesn't glance back. he tries very hard to give no indication that he thinks he knows, either way - he's never seen or heard her hit him, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't happen. suddenly he feels lightheaded and whether its the sharp smell of bleach or anger he feels, he doesn't know. he stops with the shirt, drops it in the sink and climbs up onto the side of the tub, opens the small window at the top of the wall in the shower. he climbs down, almost steps on mingyu's shoe, goes back to the sink.  
  
"no, she doesn't hit me," mingyu says after a minute or two, after he's thought about it. "she doesn't really have to."  
  
wonwoo won't ask him any more than that - understands, and knows when to leave well enough alone and he looks over at the mingyu briefly, nods his head once and scrubs the shirt.  
  
"she loves me." mingyu adds a moment later and wonwoo nods again.  
  
"of course," he affirms, because he'd never argue that. mingyu nods, too, and they go back to silence. the sun gets lower in the sky and the bathroom goes from being washed in yellow to dipped in gold, and just because you love someone doesn't mean you love them in the right way. it doesn't mean you love them enough.  
  
they don't talk about it again.  
  
mingyu goes home that night with a clean shirt and a bruise settling under his right eye.  
  
wonwoo listens that night, more intently than he ever has, his ear pressed against the wall.)  
  
  
  
  
  
the summer wonwoo turns seventeen and mingyu turns sixteen is when everything changes. in the spring, wonwoo's mom is ill. she can't go to work anymore, and some days she's lucky to be out of bed. so wonwoo does what he can do - he cleans before school and after, he keeps quiet. he tries to stay gone, to stay away from the apartment as much as he can. this is the summer mingyu's own mother stops coming home (or starts coming home when mingyu is never there, when he's at school and he only knows this because her things appear and disappear depending on the day) and this suits both of the boys just fine. wonwoo stays in the apartment with mingyu most of the evenings; studies and does homework while mingyu does anything but.  
  
this is the summer they spend smoking; now mingyu doesn't only carry the backpacks. he opens them, sells what's on the inside here and there to a few people he trusts, no one from school because he isn't stupid. he puts a few hundred won in here and there and skims a bit of the less than good stuff from the little baggies he makes up. mingyu uses an exacto knife to cut through the paper of a pre-rolled cigarette, taps the tobacco out onto the coffee table and fills the empty wrapper with weed, licks the seam of the paper and twists the top of the cigarette into a sharp point. he and wonwoo share the crudely made joint in front of the television, passing it back and forth until it all burns out.  
  
they spend the too-warm nights together there, stoned, the apartment dark except for the shifting colors on the tv.  
  
this is the summer wonwoo starts having the dreams, the summer he barely passes his classes, the summer he starts going up to the roof of the apartment building close to sunset. he's not sure what he's doing or what he's thinking - the months feel like one long line of time, smudged together and wonwoo feels like he's suffocating. he tells himself that it's just the heat, that it's just stress, that maybe he's just going crazy.  
  
(mingyu finds him on the roof one evening - follows him up, up the fire escape to the top and for years, he tells himself it was something else, that he didn't see what he thought he saw that day - that he didn't see wonwoo leaning further and further over the ledge of the building. it wasn't that; it couldn't be that. when he called wonwoo's name, he looked over his shoulder.  
  
he followed mingyu back down the fire escape.)  
  
  
  
  
  
he's been back in itaewon for a week - they've had the funeral and the burial too and wonwoo has to wait at least another two days to see that the apartment is packed up and cleaned. he has to turn his key over, the key he's had since a child, to the building super on monday evening. it's only two more days - and he tells himself that the worst of it is over.  
  
he hates himself for it, but he's still staying in mingyu's apartment. for all intents and purposes, mingyu seems more passive than anything, though he's not unfriendly or unkind. he comes to the funeral, he's there every day without fail and wonwoo wishes mingyu wouldn't come, just once, so that he could have something to feel hurt or angry about. but that isn't mingyu - it isn't who he is, even after all these years and after all the history between the two of them. it makes his chest hurt; he reasons it away. he tells himself - i haven't slept in days. (and the day that he buries his dad, he goes back to the apartment on autopilot, crawls into bed, puts his head under the covers and sleeps for what feels like days, inside his head.)  
  
he wakes up thankful that time has passed - only two more days.  
  
he watches mingyu out the window, on the street.  
  
it's easy to only remember the things you really think are worth remembering. the good things, the good times. the price you pay for remembering them is the hollowness you feel after, the ache that you feel like might never subside.  
  
mingyu is laughing at something, really laughing, his head thrown back and his eyes shut and he looks unbearably, painfully young. sixteen again, in the light from the setting sun. wonwoo envies and admires him in turns.  
  
people are drawn to mingyu.  
  
it's not strange - wonwoo understands why.  
  
he's felt that pull his entire life.  
  
  
  
  
  
coincidentally, or maybe it's not much of a coincidence at all -  
  
the summer he's sixteen, mingyu has his first real girlfriend. she fawns over him a lot and it's weird, he guesses, but the attention is also nice and it feels good and everyone else likes someone so he thinks he can like her, too. she follows him around here and there, and he goes out of his way to walk her home almost every day, meets her outside of the gates of her school and turns away to smile when her friends all _ooh_ and _ahh_ and make over the two of them when they go away.  
  
sometimes, he holds her hand. and he kisses her after a couple of months, because that's what you're supposed to do.  
  
it's during this time, these few odd months, when for the first time he sees less and less of wonwoo.  
  
wonwoo won't walk with them home from school, no matter how many times mingyu asks.  
  
"do you not like her?" mingyu asks him, more than once, and each time wonwoo pulls a face - he even laughs.  
  
"what a stupid question, mingyu," he says and it seems so easy, so natural. "she's fine. of course i like her." each time wonwoo reassures him of this, mingyu feels stupid for even having asked in the first place. (and wonwoo really, honesty, is telling almost the whole truth - she's inoffensive and she's pretty, sure, and she's nice enough. he doesn't dislike mingyu's girlfriend. what does it matter if he did? i'm not dating her, mingyu, he wants to say; but he bites his tongue when he thinks this, realizing it would just leave mingyu with more questions than he started with and the less mingyu knows, the better. the less he has to explain, the better. whatever it is he feels, whatever frustration or anger or jealousy - wonwoo pushes it against the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue and swallows hard.  
  
he doesn't talk about it.  
  
he stares at the wall in his bedroom, thinks he can hear mingyu breathing softly, sleeping, on the other side. whether it's his imagination, the own rise and fall of his chest, he doesn't know for sure.  
  
he grows restless. at night, he has strange dreams.)  
  
  
  
  
  
one more day.  
  
wonwoo keeps forgetting that he has a life, and it's not here. and in one more day, he will go back to it, and he can be done with this, with the apartment, with itaewon forever. there is nothing keeping him here anymore, only one more day, one more day. he feels shipwrecked on a desert island here. he tries hard not to make his desperation apparent, and mingyu tries hard to seem unaffected by all of it. mingyu is his mother's son; he isn't home much and he understands, as an adult, avoiding coming home when it feels like you're walking into a minefield each and every time.  
  
one more day, and wonwoo will leave. it's saturday night. mingyu makes dinner and he and wonwoo make no stilted conversation when they eat.  
  
"i'm having a friend over tonight," mingyu adds as he stands to walk to the kitchen and wonwoo stares at his back for a long moment.  
  
"okay." wonwoo isn't sure what else he is supposed to say, but then he feels the questions trickling out of his brain, itching on his tongue. there is a long pause - water running in the kitchen, in the sink, the clatter of a dish and a utensils and the water shuts off and in the silence, wonwoo clears his throat.  
  
"what's your friend like?"  
  
wonwoo sees mingyu heave a sigh before he ever hears it. it seems like an innocuous enough question but for someone who rarely asks things (mingyu was always the asker of questions, the inquisitive one of the two of them, the one with the upwards lilt to his voice), they both know what this is. wonwoo is prying. mingyu sighs like all of the air has gone out of him and says something without turning around, something passive and final, let's not do this, and wonwoo bites back the rest of the questions he has. he leaves, and he stays out most of the night, until it's no longer night anymore at all. wonwoo returns to the apartment, fishes the wrong key out of his pocket at first and has to find the other, the one mingyu slid to him on the night he came back to itaewon. wonwoo spent the night drinking, at this bar and then that and by the time he gets back to the apartment (he almost calls it home, he thinks of mingyu calling it home, he presses his head against the doorjamb to try and stop thinking so much altogether) he's almost too wasted to function.  
  
the house is dim and familiar and it makes his stomach ache. at the end of the short hall, mingyu's bedroom door is open.  
  
he's alone. wonwoo wasn't sure what he expected. mingyu is alone, asleep, his back rising and falling rhythmically. how long does wonwoo stand there in the hall, staring at him? how long does he stand there, like a ghost that haunts the place, in the shadow of the walls around him, staring at mingyu? too long, too long, any time at all is too long. a friend, wonwoo thinks -  
  
_what does that make me_ , he wonders. _what did that ever make us?_  
  
he goes to his own bed and falls asleep, heavy and dreamless.  
  
  
  
  
  
they are sixteen and seventeen.  
  
wonwoo dreams things that don't make sense. he dreams about death a lot, his own and other people's. he dreams about fires and he dreams about his head being held underwater. he dreams about his mother dying and wakes, panicked, to find her still alive and when he falls asleep, he has the same dream again.  
  
the summer is almost over - wonwoo doesn't sleep much at all, he can't. being awake starts to feel like a dream, too, and when mingyu talks to him now, the sound is tinny and distant. the weed leaves them both lethargic and useless and wonwoo finds himself feeling disconnected from every think during the long, hot hours when the sun is out. he craves sleep and dreads it in turns, he doesn't want to do this anymore. (what's this? everything, he thinks, he doesn't want to do anything.) he sits on the roof in the eveings, alone, and watches the sun set. he isn't sure what he's thinking or not thinking the day that mingyu finds him on the roof and calls him back down, looking shaken and irritated. they sit in front of the television that night, like most nights, both so stoned and heavy-limbed that their breathing is labored and tired.  
  
they aren't talking. they don't talk much. they talk less and less these days. the dreams get worse each night. the waking hours get worse, too. wonwoo isn't sure which is which anymore - so when mingyu leans onto his shoulder, it could be either, dream or reality, and when mingyu presses his lips against wonwoo's jaw, wonwoo is convinced this is one of the dreams; so he turns his head, lifts his hand and presses his fingers against mingyu's cheek and kisses him fully, completely.  
  
it isn't a dream, though, its real, and when wonwoo can't wake up he realizes, he panics, he freezes. his heart is hammering away in his chest, and he feels sober so fast that it begins to make his body feel sick, sour. ("i can take it back," mingyu says after, and wonwoo shakes his head, ties his shoes and wonders if his hands will ever stop shaking. "i can pretend it never even happened."  
  
he sounds so desperate, so sad. wonwoo wants to believe him. but he still says no you can't and of course, the dreams he has are of mingyu, his mouth and his hands and his body, and wonwoo feels his whole world unraveling. it's the worst case scenario, the thing he never wanted to happen, the truth he never wanted to acknowledge. wonwoo leaves.)  
  
three days later, his mom dies and he feels so much sorrow and emptiness and regret that he doesn't know how he'll ever be able to get past it. he gets through the funeral, he gets through the burial. he does this with mingyu there, neither of them saying a word to one another, and the unspoken things feel like a divide that can't be bridged. wonwoo wishes he could crawl into the hole in the ground with his mother. he doesn't do it.  
  
wonwoo goes to bed still in his clothes from the funeral.  
  
he closes his eyes and cries, and cries, and cries - silently at first and then in tortured, wracking sobs.  
  
later, mingyu will come - he'll kneel down and then he'll lie down, and wonwoo won't fight when mingyu wraps his arm around wonwoo's shoulders and pulls him to his chest. for the first time in his life, wonwoo will think that the city outside is quiet and he'll lay there with mingyu on the floor of the bedroom he's slept in for seventeen years and he'll think maybe he loves mingyu but it doesn't matter, nothing matters, but he'll fall asleep that way and sleep for a day. and when he wakes, mingyu will be gone, and wonwoo will leave the next day.  
  
and he won't let anyone near him, won't let anyone touch him, for the next four years.  
  
  
  
  
  
it's not his home, after all, so wonwoo thinks it will be easy to leave.  
  
it's not that easy, it's never that easy. it isn't a clean break, never stood a chance of being one. (what did either of them expect - for things to be different this time around? for either of them to be able to say the things they never could in all those years before? maybe. maybe that's what they both closed their hearts around, the idea of change, the idea of a second chance. but things don't change in itaewon, do they?)  
  
wonwoo leaves in the early evening, after he gives the super the key to the apartment he grew up in. he doesn't take one last look - isn't sure if he could bear to. he tucks mingyu's key under the loose light fixture in the hall, the secret hiding place they always had, and he walks down the hallway and thinks this is it, this is the last time.  
  
he wants to mean it this time; he thinks he wants to mean it this time.  
  
he pretends to want to mean it, at least, and mingyu pretends to expect to find his home empty but the sinking in his heart, the sharp pain behind his eyes, betrays his resolve and he tells himself there's nothing more he could've done; after all, he wasn't the one who walked away.  
  
wonwoo makes it as far as the bus station before he begins to feel like he's suffocating.  
  
and then -  
  
there's a knock on the door. (no one ever, ever knocks on mingyu's door. it startles him.) his heart is beating too fast when he opens it, just a couple inches to peek out and then a bit more.  
  
there's no real beginning or end and things don't change here, but time tends to cycle things back around, tends to bring things back -  
  
mingyu opens the door wider and wonwoo steps in, presses his palm flat against the space just underneath the doorknob and pushes lightly; the latch finds it's home - clicks softly into place.

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha, i'm losing my mind. this is the first thing i've written to completion in over a year and it's terrible but maybe you enjoyed it! it took me three bottles of wine and two frank ocean albums to get this shit done and mostly i finished it just to flex on my own brain. want me to share my writing playlist for this with you? find me on twitter @cliffparades.


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